After The Ring
by Severina

* * *

I pull the bottle of Perrier from the refrigerator without really looking.  Swallow down a couple of quick gulps and try to still the hammering of my heart.  I stand in the meagre glow of the fridge’s interior light, trying to avoid looking anywhere but at its paltry contents and at the cool water grasped in my sweaty palm.  I never realized Brian’s loft was so fucking dark.  And quiet.  No sound from the street penetrates his fourth floor windows. 

I hear a… crackle… a hiss… and I spin toward the living room.  My eyes wildly search the darkness, but there’s nothing there.  The television is turned off.  The television is, mercifully, static-free.  No snow.  No noise.  Nothing. 

A shuffle sounds from behind me and I nearly fall as I spin again, my heart thumping madly.  The fridge door thumps shut with a soft swoosh as I struggle to regain my equilibrium and force back what I’m certain would be the incredibly high-pitched scream that threatens to erupt from my throat.  I’m pretty sure Brian wouldn’t appreciate it. 

Brian stands at the edge of the counter, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck and blinking sleepily.  He hasn’t bothered to throw on any clothes, but why would he?  He’s always been completely unselfconscious about his body.  That’s something that I’ve always envied about him.  Now matter how comfortable I am with Brian and the things we do together -- the way we love each other -- I can neveer just wander around the loft as naked as the day I was born.  I always have to put something on.  Like the grey sweatpants I’m wearing now. 

“What’s wrong?” Brian asks. 

He may look tired… even as I watch he lets out a massive yawn… but his eyes are studying me warily.  It’s a familiar look, yet one I haven’t seen in a long time.  Not since the Hobbes nightmares stopped.  They used to be frequent… almost every night.  I’d wake up breathless and shaking, and Brian would always awaken a second after me.  He’d draw me into his arms and rub his hands along my quivering body and whisper that everything was going to be all right.  He’d listen if I wanted to talk about it, and hold me if I didn’t. 

But I haven’t had any of those nightmares in a while.  Well, that’s not exactly true.  I had a few when I was with… when I lived at Ethan’s place.  I’d get out of bed and sit on that rickety sofa, and sometimes I’d pull Wolfram onto my lap and stroke his soft fur. 

Ethan never woke up. 

I glance at Brian, doing my best to dismiss the memories. 

“Nothing,” I answer, wondering if he can read the lie.  It’s doesn’t matter anyway, because I can’t help stealing another glance at the television -- still mute, thank god -- and Brian’s not an idiot.  He figurres it out. 

“You’re not still thinking about that movie?” 

My eyes widen slightly, confirming his suspicions. 

He takes another step toward the counter, his lips twitching.  “Did the creepy little dead girl scaaaare you?” 

“Fuck you!“ I slam the water bottle down on the counter and push angrily past him to the bedroom.    He’s probably scratching his head and wondering what brought on that little temper tantrum, but I don’t fucking care.  I’m pissed.  Supremely pissed at him for his lack of support, but mostly supremely pissed at myself for letting at stupid goddamned movie like The Ring get to me.  Since when do I get the heebie-jeebies over a movie?  I used to be able to laugh my way through them all.  Friday the 13th.  Hellraiser.  Even Blair Witch didn’t get to me.  What the fuck is so different about The Ring?   With it’s eerie little girl and it’s dead horses and it’s giant well and… Shit! 

After a minute I realize that I’m not alone.  Brian is standing at the foot of the bed, watching me silently.  His hair has corkscrewed into a dozen different directions as he slept, and it just makes him look sexier than ever.  I’ll take bed-head Brian over corporate Brian any day.   I shake my head a little, remembering that I’m supposed to be ticked off at him.  I don’t know how long he’s been there, but I push myself into the centre of the bed and huddle a little farther into the covers, drawing my legs up to my chest and resting my cheek on my knee. 

“You want a light on?” he asks quietly. 

I want to scream “hell yeah”.  But I just shrug, and after a moment I hear his bare feet softly padding to the bathroom.  The light switches on, and the pale illumination softens the harsh angles of the room and bathes my face in golden hues. 

“Better?” 

It is, but I can’t admit it. 

Brian sighs, dropping to his knees beside me on the bed.  He runs a hand lightly across my arm before letting it fall away. 

“You know it’s just a movie,” he begins in his very logical ’time to reason with Justin’ tone of voice.  “They’re actors.  It’s fiction.  That creepy little girl probably has a three-movie deal, a contract to hawk hot dogs or cellular phones or some such shit, and has already started on the coke habit that will be her downfall.  She can call Dana Plato or Tatum O‘Neill for tips.” 

I know he’s trying to make me feel better.  He’s got a weird way of going about it, but that’s Brian.  He doesn’t understand that visceral response that I get from visual and auditory media.  Maybe it’s something about being an artist.  But I’m drawn into the action in a way that Brian never is. Brian would never debate elaborate theories on the motivations of fictional characters from a TV show or movie… like I do.  Brian would never analyze song lyrics, line by line, in a vain attempt to understand the artist’s inspiration... like I do.  Brian would never let himself wonder what would happen if the video of The Ring were real… and that little girl were to pull herself from his television… dripping wet, stumbling, watching us with her dead dead eyes.  Like I do. 

The shiver goes through me before I can stop it, and he looks concerned.  Really concerned.  So I do my best to gather myself together before raising my eyes to his. 

“Fears can be irrational,” I say, pleased that there‘s no underlying tremor in my voice.  “Knowing that doesn’t make them feel any less real.” 

He blinks slowly and then lifts a hand to my face, running the backs of his fingers slowly down my cheek.  I lean into his touch, savouring that precious warmth, and any lingering irrational anger at him seems to melt away at his caress. 

“I know,“ Brian whispers, pulling his hand away, his voice suddenly hoarse.  He holds my gaze for a long moment before looking down at the duvet, his long fingers plucking restlessly at some piece of lint that only he can see.  “But… you have to keep trying… keep trying to understand that your fears are groundless… till they finally go away.” 

And I realize we’re not talking about The Ring anymore. 

I reach out, halting the restive twitching of his hand and twining my fingers in his.  His hand clasps mine fiercely as he pulls me a little closer… as we draw comfort from each other. 

“Sometimes,” I say, “it helps to have someone to hold on to.  Someone to trust.” 

Brian huffs out a shaky breath, but his lips quirk in a soft smile.  “It helps,” he concedes.  “Trying is hard work.” 

He slides to the top of the bed, leaning against the wall and tugging on my hand.  I follow his lead -- as I do in so many things -- and prop myself against his chest.  His firm arms come around to cover my torso and his lips brush against my hair and my hands drape lightly over his and I sigh, able to relax in his embrace. 

“We’ll talk until you can sleep again,” Brian says matter-of-factly. 

It’s a lovely thought.  In the back of my mind, I’m still seeing the television switch on of its own volition, and static pouring from the screen… a puddle of water and a long-haired little girl with frightening eyes.  But I frown, twisting around in Brian’s arms so that I can see his face. “Don’t you have that big meeting in the morning?” 

“I can be brilliant on minimal sleep.” 

“Brian--” 

“Did you hear that Emmett quit his job at Torso?” 

We go through Emmett’s new career, Ben’s fascination with some hustler, my latest art project, the continued aggression against troops in Iraq and Afghanistan, Brian’s newest ideas on the cranberry-apple-vodka campaign, and Deb’s new waitress.  By the time we’re debating the pros and cons of Bush’s involvement in the middle east peace negotiations, I’m starting to yawn.  I snuggle closer against Brian’s chest, my eyelids drooping, the low, soft sound of his voice blanketing me in security and his strong arms cradling me in warmth. 

I’m safe now.  I can sleep. 

So I do. 

* * *

Feedback is always welcome
Severina

[Gapfillers] ~ [Drabbles] ~ ["Take Flight" Series] ~
[Standalones] ~ [Soundtrack Collection] ~ [On Impulse: Improv Fiction] ~ [Home]